


he remembers (but oh, how he tries to forget)

by patchilles



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:15:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patchilles/pseuds/patchilles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this and this and this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he remembers (but oh, how he tries to forget)

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fic!
> 
> It's unedited and unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine.

He wakes in a start, his eyes wide and skin hot. His arms search frantically around the silk sheets for something- something that isn't there.

He remembers his dream, which surprises him since he usually never does.

He remembers war, the sweat prickled skin closed up tightly against golden armor. He remembers calloused hands wrapped around a spear like a lifeline (and he supposes it was), the yelling, the screaming and the warm metallic smelling substance splattered against his skin.

He runs his hands through his dark hair and pulls, in hopes the pain will bring he back to reality. (though it only sends him deeper). He remembers a man, much bigger than he stabbing him with his spear (from the abdomen right though to the spine) and watching as the man turned the spear inside his body, as if his body, was a palette and his organs were the paint. He remembers that feeling of his life slipping away, of wishing he had one more day to say goodbye, and then the stillness of death

He runs his hands over his face and stuffs his fingers into his mouth, trying to quiet the scream the erupts from him.

He’s never been to war, he’s never even been in a fight (he tries so hard to please his parents).

He pulls his hands out and wipes them on the sheets, his head spinning. They wander down his chest where the phantom pain still lingers. He’s never been stabbed, the only two scars which lay upon his skin are two birthmarks, one under his belly-button and the other, mirrors it, laying on his lower-back.

He tries not to think about it.

He wakes every morning feeling empty- as if a part of his soul is missing. Which he thinks, could be the exact reason why he feels that way.

He’s dated girls, he’s dated boys. But none of them seem to be right. It’s as if he doesn't want himself to be happy, it’s as if he picks, each person he’s ever come close to loving, a part so specifically just to find one thing wrong with them. But it’ not just the dream that haunts his memories. He remembers a boy.

A boy with skin that stands out so beautifully against his own, a boy with light hand and a thing for deviance. This boy is all he can think about, it’s as if his mind were an attic and this boy (whose name he knows not) has filled each crevice, each gaping hole. It’s as if this boy has been with him for much longer than the years he’s lived.

He remembers this (a boy, a different boy, which greedy hands outstretched for something that he did not have the right to claim, the feeling of anger you felt of which this boy had cast upon you, you didn't have much, even as a prince, but this was yours- you wasn't going to let him have it. The sound of a skull meeting a hard surface, the smell of blood.)

and this (never being good enough and finally being cast aside, your own father not even taking the chance to give one last glance in your direction. The feeling of meeting someone who makes you feel better than you've felt in a long time, feeling as if you could eat the world raw.)

and this (a boy- the boy, with light hair and the thing for deviance, whose skin stands out so beautifully against your own, your hands gripping each other's so tightly that your knuckles turn pale but you don’t let go. Someone else comes and tries to take what’s yours, and again you don’t have much, just this- just him. You do what you must.)

He remembers a kiss, or several kisses and being held like he mattered.

He doesn't know what to think of all this.

His name isn't Patroclus- but the name falls so beautifully off of the light-haired boy’s lips that he wishes it was, and he doesn't know a soul named Achilles but his heart seems to skip and beat and his chest seems to tighten every time he speaks the name out loud, he would give anything to be Patroclus, to be loved by the light-haired Achilles. But some things are just dreams- no matter how vividly you remember then.


End file.
